Waves Upon The Sand  Annie Cresta's Story
by MadHatter524
Summary: Everyone knows that Annie Cresta is completely mad. Everyone also knows that for some reason, she's the only girl that Finnick Odair loves. Annie's story from when she's nine years old until after the rebellion. T mainly for violence. Finnick/Annie.
1. Chapter 1

I step into the vast underground room and look at all of the stations within it - half of the room is dedicated to combat skills, while the other half teaches survival skills. This segment of District 4's Tribute Training Center is for the 10-18 year old kids, training to bring glory to themselves and our district in the Hunger Games. I'm lucky, though. I have shown my skills to the Testing Committee for Special Cases, and I have been allowed full access to this room at the age of 8.

There are so many different things to do, so many tools and weapons that I've never seen before. I decide to just wander around, look for something interesting.

I pass the archery range, the spear throwing area, and the slingshot targets. A few of the older kids look at me suspiciously, but I keep my head held high and nobody questions me.

After five minutes of searching, I see something that interests me. A station that has nothing but tridents, the perfect District 4 weapons. I walk towards it and see that I'm not the only one interested.

A boy who can't be older than 10 or 11 is practicing with a long, blue trident. An expression of intense concentration decorates his face, but I can see the glint in his sea-green eyes that tells me that this is all just a game to him. In a matter of seconds, he has "killed" three cloth dummies with the deadly weapon. He sits on a wooden bench, and without hesitation, I walk up to him.

"Excuse me." I say firmly but politely. "I was wondering if - "

"I'm busy." he says crossly, getting up and exchanging the trident he was working with for a shorter silver one. He starts his routine of spearing dummies again.

"I'll wait." I say, and sit down. I have every intention of sitting here until he gives in and listens to what I have to say. It doesn't take nearly as long as I thought it would.

After a few minutes, he pauses and turns to face me. "You're not going anywhere, are you." he says. It's a statement, not a question.

I think about it. "No, I'm not." I reply

He sighs. "So what do you want?" he asks.

"I want you to show me how to fight with a trident.:

He bites his lip. "You seem a bit young to be in this room. Are you sure you shouldn't be in the Junior Division?"

"The Testing Committee gave me full access to this room two whole year early." I say smugly. I see the doubt and surprise on his face. I know I'm not one of the masses of muscle that's wandering around here - in fact, I'm quite small - but I can fight. I hate having people underestimate me.

He looks me over, as if he's sizing me up, seeing if I'll be able to deal with a trident. Finally, he speaks again. "Frankly, I find you annoying, but I know you're going to keep bugging me until I teach you. Fine. I'll teach you, if you can learn. I'm Finnick Odair, by the way."

"Annie Cresta." I say.

The next few hours pass in a blur. It takes a while for me to manage the grip on the trident - they're heavier than they look - but once I get that down, I learn quickly. By the end of the day, I can hold a trident decently and have accomplished some basic manuevers.

"So I'll teach you more stuff tomorrow?" Finnick asks.

I smile. "I thought you found me annoying."

Finnick grins. "I do. But I can handle annoying."

"Tomorrow it is, then." I say as I walk home. A thought is starting to form at the back of my mind, and it's that maybe I've found more than just a teacher. maybe, just maybe, I've found a friend.

I should have known that it was all too good to last. I should have seen it.

The next day, when Finnick was showing me more ways to fight with a trident, it happened. I shouldn't have been so surprised - it happens at the most inconvenient times.

The air seemed to fill with glistening, colored sparkles. Finnick was saying something that was probably about the way I was holding my trident, but I didn't understand him. And then the sirens started. Soft at first, but they were getting louder, and I knew that they would keep getting louder - just as I knew that nobody else could hear them.

I'm vaguely aware of my trident clattering to the floor. I must have let go of it, but I can't remember that. I have my hands over my ears, trying to block out the awful sounds, but they just keep getting louder and louder until...

The world jolts back to its normal self. The sparkles are gone, the excruciating sound of the sirens has stopped, and Finnick's words have become clear. "Annie...are you OK?" he's asking. I can tell by the look on his face that he has no idea what has just happened.

This is why I don't have any friends. Something like this happens, and they single me out as a weirdo, a freak. Sure, sometimes it's different. I'll hear somebody tell a joke and I'll laugh, only to realize that nobody in the room has said anything that's even remotely funny. I'll think that they're done talking when they aren't and I'll end up missing the last half of what they say. It's been happening less and less lately, and I thought that it was going to finally be over. But it's not.

My mom says that I'm "going into my own little world". Maybe she's right, but most of the time, it just seems like I'm going crazy.

A few minutes later, I'm standing on the edge of one of District 4's many lakes with no idea how I got there. I sit in the sand, trying to remember what exactly happened. I remember the sirens and the sparkles, but then nothing else. Since I feel tired, I'm guessing that I ran here.

I have made too many mistakes about "my own little world". I have made the mistake of trying to talk to people about it. They never understand. It just makes them think that I'm even more crazy. I've made the mistake of thinking that everybody does this sometimes. But I quickly realized that no, it was just me, crazy Annie Cresta. Most of all, though, I've made the mistake of still trying to befriend people who have seen me when I'm taken over by these...well, I don't really know what they are, but who have seen me when something like this happens. They always see this as an opportunity to kindly ask me if I'd like some "mental help", or more often, just insult me. That is why I'm determined to never speak to Finnick Odair again.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Two years have passed. I haven't talked to that boy that I met in the Tribute Training Center - it's been so long that I've almost, but not quite, forgotten his name. I still see him, he just doesn't see me. I'm very good at not being spotted when I don't want to be.

And then I'm ten years old and it's time for me to start working in District 4's fishing industry. We're one of the Districts that starts kids working really early. The officials figure that the kids might learn something that will help them in The Hunger Games. There hasn't ever been a trident or a fishing rod or anything like that at the Cornucopia yet, but there's a first time for everything.

I stand on the beach with the other ten-year-olds as a bored-looking, middle-aged man with thinning brown hair who is holding a clipboard explains to us what we're going to do. For the next week or so, depending on how quickly we learn, we are going to be paired with one of the older kids, who's going to teach us everything we ever wanted and needed to know about fish. I've never wanted to know ANYTHING about fish. This is going to be fun.

Names are called and the crowd around me slowly thins as each one follows a sixteen-year-old to the boats, or to the dock, or to some building that I don't recognize. And finally, I'm the only one left. It's like I'm invisible. The bored-looking man doesn't even notice me. I'm considering ignoring this and just doing whatever I want, but I don't want to risk getting into trouble with the Peacekeepers. So, for the first time that I can remember, I speak up around complete strangers.

"Excuse me." I say. The bored-looking man turns around, looks at me questioningly, and suddenly, I'm not so sure of myself. I keep talking anyway, hoping that my words make sense. "I wasn't paired up with anybody to teach me about this stuff." It sounds weird to me, but the man thankfully understands what I'm saying. He regards his clipboard.

"And you are...?" he asks.

"Annie Cresta." I say quietly.

He looks at his clipboard again. "Ah, here you are. Hmm...we can't spare any more of the older children - they're working on a very important seafood order for President Snow himself - but we'll find someone else who can teach you."

I follow him, grateful that I don't have to say anything. We walk along the beach, Every few minutes, the man stops, consults his clipboard, and keeps going. I don't know who he's looking for, but I hope that he hasn't forgotten me already.

I'm just starting to wonder whether I should ask him again, refresh his memory, remind him that I'm still here, when he stops, turns to me, and says, "The person I'm going to pair you up with doesn't have much teaching experience, but he's a natural and I'm sure he'll do fine teaching you." We walks up to a boy who can't be more than a couple of years older than me. The man taps the boy on the shoulder, and the boy turns around.

And of course, because this is my mixed-up crazy life, the boy just has to be Finnick Odair. Why am I not all that surprised?

The look in Finnick's eyes tells me he recognizes me, even if he's not yet sure where he knows me from. He opens is mouth to say something, but fortunately, the man with the clipboard interrupts him.

"Annie," he says, "This is Finnick Odair."

"We've met." I say shortly before he can say anything else. The name 'Annie' has apparently hit something in Finnick's memory, because now I'm sure he recognizes me, knows what happened. I know from experience that if I ever talk to someone who saw me when that happens, they'll insult me like there's no tomorrow. I don't intend to give Finnick a chance to do that.

The man nods and turns to Finnick. "Annie is just starting work in the fishing industry and needs someone to teach her, and I knew that you'd be happy to do the job."

Finnick looks unsure. "Isn't that job reserved for the older kids?" he asks slowly.

"Normally, yes." the man says. "But because of some - ah - special circumstances, I've decided to pair her with you. I know you'll do well as a teacher."

Finnick still looks doubtful, but the man is already walking away, checking off items on his lengthy list of things to do before the day is done.

I glare at Finnick, but he doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't say that he recognizes me, although he must. He just takes a deep breath, thinks for a while, and says "I don't really know that much about teaching."

I remain silent. I don't intend to help his intentions, whatever they may be, in any way.  
>We decide - or rather, Finnick decides, since I'm just maintaining a stony silence - that Finnick will just do what he normally does, he'll explain what he's doing, and I'll just try to learn from that. This sounds like a good enough plan to me, mostly because it involves him doing most of the work and me not having to talk.<p>

Even though we may have nothing in common (and I don't even want to have anything in common with him), I can tell that we're both thinking the same thing. _Why this? Why me?_

I am forced to spend every weekday with Finnick. Sometimes, he tries to make conversation, but I never say a word. He teaches me about the different types of fish and seafood that we try to catch, which I'm not all that interested in but figure I might as well pay attention to. He teaches me how to hold a fishing rod, and I can't help thinking about how, two years ago, he taught me to hold a trident in the same way.

My weekends are spent at the Training Center. On the occasions that I do run into Finnick, I don't acknowledge his presence. This works for both of us, as I can tell he's getting fed up with me not saying anything. _Just as annoying as you were two years ago to him_, some part of my brain tells me. I tell it to shut up.

And every waking hour is spent listening for the sirens, watching for the sirens, hoping that they never come. But of course they do. And whenever I'm around other people, I run before it can get too bad. I run to my house, I run to the beach, I just run away. But my own little world follows me, and no amount of running can change that.


	3. Chapter 3

I'll admit, Finnick surprises me. He's not like the other people who I've met - he doesn't tease me about me going into my own little world - in fact, he doesn't even mention it. I'm grateful for that. Slowly, after a few weeks, I start talking. Just simple answers to simple questions, but it's a start.

It's been a few weeks. I still have to be taught by Finnick, even though it's pretty clear that we'd both rather do other things. He still hasn't said a word indicating that we've met before this, but he has to remember. I just know that he does. But he doesn't mention it, so neither do I. And slowly, ever so slowly, I start to trust him. It's not an extremely friendly kind of trust - it's just the kind of trust that says "you don't insult me and I won't insult you" - but still, it's trust, and that's something.

And then it all comes crumbling down - or maybe everything gets built up. I don't know for sure. But something happens, something big, and it changes something. Not a lot of definite thins there, but then again, there aren't a lot of definite things in the rest of my life.

It's been a quiet day. Not because we won't talk, but just because we don't. It's silence by choice, not silence by force. And then he quietly says "About...when I was teaching you with the trident...what happened?"

I stiffen. My eyes squeeze tightly closed as I remember the vivid details of the scene. The day that was perfectly normal until it wasn't.

And then, not knowing exactly why, I tell him. Not everything, but just enough.

There's another long silence, but this time, it's the kind of silence that feels like it's forcing itself on you against your will. And finally, he speaks again.

"That's...that's..." he says, at a loss for words.

"Weird?" I interrupt. "Crazy? Bonkers?"

He shakes his head slowly. "That's...amazing."

Now there's a word I've never heard used to describe this.

"And that can just happen at any time?" he says. Against all odds, he sounds..._interested_. "That must be wonderful, to just be able to...I don't know...escape."

"Wonderful to hear sirens blaring so loud you think your ears are going to explode?" I say coldly. "Amazing to have everybody look at you with their thoughts screaming 'freak'?"

He stops talking. Smart move.

I don't know yet whether I've made a mistake or not. True, he reacted differently, but is different better? Or is different just different?

I'm dreading today. Today I am going to go back to where Finnick is teaching me and find that he's decided that my own little world isn't "amazing" and "wonderful". He's going to have decided that it marks me as an outcast, just like so many have done before.

But, to my surprise, he acts like yesterday never happened. He just keeps teaching me about fish (like I ever really wanted to know about them). Every once in a while, I glance at him skeptically, but nothing on his face betrays that he's thinking about anything except teaching me.

And then, just like yesterday, something happens.

"What does it feel like, when you...see that stuff?" He doesn't elaborate, but we both know exactly what he's talking about. I contemplate whether to answer. He sounds genuinely interested, but is that really the case? For all I know, he's just getting more ammunition for insults later.

And before I can stop them, the words spill out of my mouth, and suddenly, just like yesterday, I'm telling him. I'm telling him how it feels like nothing else is real except for what I'm experiencing. I'm telling him how everything seems to be just a little bit off center. And then I'm telling him what I haven't even realized until now - that when that happens, it feels...normal.

I risk a glance at Finnick. He's no longer working with the net we were trying to untangle. His sea-green eyes are staring off into the distance, out over the water, like he's waiting for something. He slowly nods and gets back to work. I follow his example.

Every day, it happens. He teaches me, acting like nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. And then, every day, he asks me something, something that I've never told. And, against all odds, I tell him. I don't even know why I'm telling him, and I sometimes don't know that I'm telling him until I am. Sometimes, he'll look a little surprised, or confused, but it always ends up with him lapsing into silenced and going back to work. I wish I could get inside his head, know what he was thinking, but his thoughts remain a mystery.

And somewhere along this shaky path of understanding, my wary trust of Finnick Odair somehow turns into friendship.


	4. Chapter 4

Every time I even considered talking about my little "problems" (to phrase it nicely), I remembered that talking would just bring back the memories of people glancing at me, wondering when I would lose my head. The last thing I wanted was to think about it and have it happen. But, if it makes any sense, talking...made it go away. I don't know how it worked. But I was able to concentrate more. Whenever something strange appeared at the corners of my vision, I focused away from it, and for the first times in my life, they went away. Every time I heard the shadow of a scream, I listened to the waves lapping against the shore and they overpowered it.

****But good things can't last forever.

****It's a quiet day. A good day. Finnick and I take our boat farther out into the water than we have before. Our excuse i since he is still officially my teacher, he's teaching me about fish that live in deeper water. That, though, is far from the truth. Finnick is staring at the horizon while absentmindedly fiddling with a net. He looks like he's concentrating on something, and every once in a while, a small smile dances across his face as if he's figured something out. I'm looking into the water, wondering why the water is so calm today, when suddenly, it starts...

****...Bubbling.

****Even with my limited knowledge of the ocean, I know that this isn't normal. I look around. The bubbling water seems to be everywhere I look. Finnick doesn't seem to think that anything out of the ordinary is going on, and that's when I realize that the water isn't bubbling. It's just me, making it that way. But knowing the truth won't stop the visions from appearing.

****Sure enough, the screams start. They keep getting louder and louder. The sounds of the waves don't do nearly enough to block them out this time. I have a vague idea that the person screaming might be me, but I'm not sure.

****I have to escape. Get away from everything. But it will take a while to get the boat back to the shore. There isn't enough room in the boat to run away from anything. That only leaves one choice.

****Without even realizing what I'm doing, I jump into the icy water. It brings my brain back into sync with the rest of the world, but not fast enough. Not nearly fast enough, because I am already swimming away. I try to tell myself to stop, but my muscles will not obey. They keep moving in rhythmic strokes.

****I don't want to go any farther. Abruptly, I stop. I tread water for a while, trying to get the world to stop spinning. I look at the boat. Finnick is still watching the horizon. No, he's not. He's watching me. Waiting to see what I do next. Not making any attempt to help me. And for some reason, I'm grateful for that.

****I slowly swim back to the boat, pulling myself in and nearly turning the boat upside-down in the process. I deliberately look away from Finnick, ashamed for some reason, about how I had no control over what I was doing. But I don't cry, because I've gotten used to people looking at me strangely. I don't cry.

****After a few minutes of relative silence, Finnick slowly asks, "What...what was it like?"

****And for some reason, without meaning to, without even realizing what I'm doing...

****...I tell him.


	5. Chapter 5

It's the day of my first reaping.**  
><strong>No, it's not, I've seen plenty of reapings.**  
><strong>It's the day of the first reaping where I could get sent into the arena.**  
><strong>No, it's not. I'm only twelve, and even if my name is called, there will be so many older volunteers.**  
><strong>It's the day of the first reaping where my name could get called.**  
><strong>There. That's a nice, true statement.

I stare into the mirror, fidgeting in the blue-green dress that my mother forced me into. I hate it. I can hardly move in it. But it's the reaping, and I have to look nice. For what? The Capitol? I couldn't care less about them. I sigh.

I hate reapings, especially when you know that the people whose names are called are most likely never coming back. District 4 hasn't had a victor for nine years - it's been mostly tributes from 2 and 1. I don't think that this year will be any different.

We're supposed to be in the square at 10 am sharp. Anybody who's late will be severely punished. Anybody who doesn't show up who's not actually in the process of dying...I don't even want to think about it.

At 9:55, I find myself in the twelve-year-olds' section, way at the back. Some look nervous, others excited, others simply bored. I try to make myself look like I don't absolutely hate the reapings, but I can't seem to force a smile onto my face.

Priscilla Rowan, though, has no problems looking cheerful. She's been District 4's escort for the last 3 years. "Welcome to the 65th annual Hunger Games reapings!" she chirps. Many people cheer, some roll their eyes at Priscilla's permanent perkiness.

"Ladies first!" she exclaims as she walks over to the first of three giant glass balls. It works a little differently here - there's one glass ball for the girls' names, one for the boys' names, and one for the mentors' names.

_One slip in thousands,_ I tell myself. _And even if it happens, there will be no shortage of volunteers._ My palms are sweating, even though I know that my chances of going into the arena are about one in a million.

I don't recognize the name that's called, but a six foot three girl from the seventeen-year-old section rises, grinning. She's been waiting for this moment all her life - she was probably going to volunteer even if her name wasn't picked. Priscilla asks her if she'd like to ask for volunteers, and the girl firmly shakes her head. If you're over the age of fourteen, then asking for volunteers is considered shameful.

I don't recognize the name that's called to be the girls' mentor, either, but by the look of him, he had to have won the Games around 30 years ago.

Only two more names to be called - the boy tribute and his mentor - and I can get out of here. I just know that they will both be names that I don't know, since I don't pay much attention to names.

"Let's see who our male tribute will be!" Honestly, does Priscilla have to end every sentence with an exclamation point? Is everybody in the Capitol like that?

Priscilla puts her hand deep inside the ball overflowing with names. A few slips of paper float off the top and land in her hair, but she doesn't seem to notice.

She calls out the name, and against all odds, it is the one name that I would recognize. She has called Finnick Odair.

He walks confidently up to the stage, but I know him. At least, I know him well enough to know that he's not all that confident at all. He's faking it for the cameras. Or is he? That slightly smug expression on his face throws my suspicions into doubt.

Priscilla asks if he'd like to request volunteers. Some part of my brain is silently pleading him to - he's only fourteen, he can ask for volunteers without being judged.

But he says, "No."


	6. Chapter 6

And, because this is my life, and not the life of some random normal person who I envy, that's when the world starts to slip away. Of course.

At least it's different this time. My world is no longer a torturous place - it is my sanctuary. If I go out there, then...no. I'm safe here. Watching everybody, wanting their lives and yet somehow never wanting to leave mine. But maybe just to live one day in another person's life, away from my uncertainty - no. I am safe here.

I watch, but the colors of my vision are muted. I listen, but everyone is speaking in whispers. I feel, but yet somehow, nothing can touch me. I smell, I taste, the saltiness of the ocean, and it somehow dulls just before it reaches me. I am trapped inside my own mind, and this is no longer a sanctuary - it is a prison. I fight the urge to scream, even though there is no telling if anybody would hear me if I did.

And just like that, the reaping is over. My senses are abruptly returned to me, and I'm walking. I don't know where, I don't know why, but I end up at the Justice Building. Surprisingly, there's no wait to see either of District 4's tributes this year. I suppose that nobody wants to break down into tears, to cry, to say good-bye. But I am not in danger of crying - if this feeling overwhelms me, I will simply retreat back into my sanctuary...my prison.

Finnick is staring out the window when I walk into the room. I am abruptly jolted back in time to not that long ago, when he was supposed to be teaching me how to fish and just spent his time staring out at the horizon. I have always wondered what he saw there, what he was looking for. Maybe he was looking for a way to escape District 4, to escape Panem, to escape this place we somehow call home.

I clear my throat slightly; he doesn't turn around. Overall, I'm not surprised. He knows as well as I do that this might be his last time to see the ocean, and he's not going to miss a second of it. So I stand by the window to join him. It's as if I'm not there. Strangely, I don't mind. I'd rather have this silence than a conversation of words that are trying to mean "good-bye forever", but never quite making it.

Finally, he turns to face me. "Look, we both know I'm not coming back. Just say it."

Without turning around, I say "No." I surprise myself sometimes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finnick raise his eyebrows. "Oh? And why not? Why not just admit the stupid truth already?"

He's mad now, and trying to conceal it. I find my calmness slightly eerie, but for some reason, I know that he's not going to die. But why not?

"Because you're not going to die. You're going to be District 4's next victor." I say calmly.

Finnick laughs. "Great. I'll look forward to it. But if I don't come back, don't get too upset."

I decide not to respond. There is a long pause while I try to think of something to say. Finally, I find it. "You know, it's strange that you're the person I'd call a friend, and this is our first conversation that's lasted longer than five minutes."

Finnick thinks this over, knows it's true. He doesn't say anything, though. I understand. There are times for talking, times for listening, and times to shut the world out.

I keep talking, ignoring the fact that he's probably not even listening. "And you are coming back. I just know it."

He gives a weak smile. "Yeah. Sure I am." I can tell he's not convinced, but I'm not going to allow him to give up on himself just yet.

"You're the one who can use a trident better than half of the adults here." I persist. "You're the one who can beat more than half of the 18-year-olds in practice combat. You probably have a few tricks up your sleeve that nobody's even seen yet. You - "

He cuts me off. "You're still really annoying, you know that?"

I grin. "I thought you could handle annoying."

"Fine." he says. "Maybe I have a chance. Don't count on me coming back here alive, though."

I have to just face it. He doesn't think that he has a chance. He's just saying that to try and make me feel better. "Finnick, if you don't believe in yourself, I'm the only one who will."

And with that, I leave the room, leaving Finnick to contemplate whether the odds will be in his favor.

The streets of District 4 are deserted. I walk down the middle of the street. I am the only thing that moves besides the leaves of the trees in the wind and the waves of the ocean against the shore. For the first time, everything is peaceful. Everything is at rest, as if someone has hit the pause button on the remote control of the world. Everything is just the way I like it.

Nobody bothers me - there is nobody here to do so. Everyone is safely tucked inside their houses, grateful for the day off. Nobody thinks to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. Everybody wants to sleep, everybody wants to dream. I let them. I would be the last person in the world to disturb anybody.

I find myself by the shore of the ocean, and I keep going. I kick off my uncomfortable shoes and feel the sand between my toes, I let the waves lap at my feet. I keep walking. I hitch my skirt up to my knees so that it won't get ruined, and in that moment, I don't care who sees me.

I feel like laughing, I feel like crying. Finnick in The Hunger Games? This is either a very good thing or a very bad thing. If anybody is going to bring home the crown for District 4, it's going to be him, no matter what he thinks. But I have seen the recaps of the reapings - the tributes from 1 and 2 are formidable this year, and none of the others look like weaklings, either.

I stand there for a minute, knee-deep in the water, basking in the sunshine. I won't know anything else besides the tributes of the 65th Hunger Games until tomorrow. Tomorrow night - the chariots, when the tributes are formally introduced to the public in fancy costumes, some with so much makeup that nobody knows who they are when they're actually in the arena. Last year, our District's costumes were awful. We were dressed up as fish! There's new stylists, this year, though, so there's at least hope that our costumes won't be that embarrassing.

The water starts to sparkle, and I don't know whether it's the sun's reflections in the water droplets or just my mind playing tricks on me. The water - whether naturally or made so through my visions - is beautiful. It sparkles, it dances, it sways. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not scared by what I see, by what I'm somehow making myself see. I don't scream. I don't cry. I don't run away in fright.

I laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

Finally, it's time to watch the tributes as they ride through the Capitol on their chariots. I could watch in the square with the rest of the District, but something tells me that I don't want to be surrounded by all of those people. I find a small TV that barely works in the attic of my house. Since I don't know how to fix a TV, the grainy images on the screen will have to do.

Dusk is just beginning to fall on the Capitol as I turn on the television. The chariots haven't come out yet, and the screen is taken up by a couple of people who've been commenting on the chariot rides for as long as I can remember. The woman is as painfully cheerful as Priscilla Rowan, and the man seems bored, as though there's some party he'd rather be at. Given the luxurious lifestyle of the Capitol residents, I think my guess is right.

My heart beats faster in anticipation as the man announces that the chariots will shortly be arriving. What will Finnick's competition look like? How will they be dressed? Who are they, really? Most importantly, who are the threats?

The bright flash on the TV makes me turn my head away. I wonder if I somehow broke the screen, but then I realize that the sudden flash is just the shiny reflective silver and gold chariot of District One. Their horses are a magestic snowy white, and the chariot is just as elegant. I take a closer look at the tributes. The girl is rather small, which can be used to her advantage. However, victors aren't exactly known for being short. The boy is a bit scrawny, and I'm pretty sure I can cross him off of the list of serious competitors.

The District Two chariot is a rough gray, since their export is allegedly coal. However, a whole lot of the Peacekeepers I see look a lot like the District Two tributes that I see every year, and it doesn't take a genius to know that District 2, the Capitol's lapdog, is providing many of the Peacekeepers that patrol our streets.

The District Three chariot is stunning, with its multi-colored electric lights, but they're flashing so bright that I can hardly see the tributes. Oh, well. Their loss. If sponsors can't see them, they're not very likely to hand out money.

And now it's our District's turn. Our chariot is a dazzling blue-green, as always. And there's Finnick, wearing the idiotic blue shorts and white and blue striped shirt that everybody thinks sailors wear, but that, in reality, only exist in picture books. Finnick is smiling, which is good. If he were just stonily staring straight ahead, he would have no chance of getting sponsors. I smile back at him through the TV, wondering what he's thinking about.

The rest of the chariots go by in a blur, and there's only a few of the tributes that stick in my head. The boy from District 7 is tall and strong, and I wouldn't be surprised if he lands a place in our Career pack. What, you think I don't know what the other districts say about us? Every victor who comes back to our district tells us of how the other, less fortunate tributes were giving them dirty glances. The girl from District 8 is nothing special, but for some reason, her image sticks in my head. She seems to be hiding something - maybe whatever that something is will help her in the Games somehow. The girl from 10 shouldn't be counted out too easily, either - she's strong but wiry, meaning she's probably fast and stealthy. And then there's the boy from District 12 - a twelve-year-old that's just sitting there, crying. Poor kid. He knows he's going to die. Everyone else is probably thinking what a weakling he is, but nobody is thinking what they would do if they were in that same position.

When all of the chariots are making their repeated circles around the plaza, I notice that Finnick is getting more than his fair share of camera time. Why? I mean, he doesn't have the most spectacular costume in the world. I try to see him as a stranger might see him, somebody who hadn't seen him before, who only knew him as the smiling boy in the chariot. I then get that awkward feeling you get when you suddenly realize that your best friend can be considered _extremely_ attractive. I feel heat come to my cheeks - I thought I knew him, and maybe I know him all the better for not focusing on his outwards appearance. But all that these people see is a strong, attractive, healthy young man, and because of his genetics and physical condition, they're going to rain money on him. I try to convince myself that that's a good thing. Shouldn't these sponsors wait to see how the tributes perform in training first? Why focus only on how they look?

The chariot program abruptly ends and clips from previous Hunger Games appear on the screen. I turn them off in disgust. There's nothing I can do now but wait.


End file.
